Friday, 21 January 2011

The Quiet Man.

I obviously didn't make myself clear with yesterday's blog. My fault. When writing a blog it just sort of pours out of my head. I don't edit it or overly-think it out. Fuck, I don't even spel check it. I guess just sometimes when you feel passionately about something you can write so much from your gut reaction that it's easy to actually forget the original point. That's obviously what happened to me. I tried to explain something important and I forgot the whole message that I was trying to send out. Let me make it clear, when I said all that stuff yesterday, what I was trying to ask you, myself, the world is this: How is Paddy McGuinness playing stadiums now?

Last night I met a man called Torquil Zest. He was an incredible man, a decent man, a quiet hero. He was a man that I long to be but woe betide this pitiful planet if I had the power of Torquil Zest. I couldn't harness the power of Torquil Zest. With great power comes great responsibility and I'm too irresponsible for responsibility. But last night, I looked at Torquil zest and I dreamt. A day with that man's qualities. An hour. Five minutes. The changes I could make.

OK, so I didn't actually meet him and I don't know if his name really is Torquil Zest but he definitely exists. I saw him. And he was beautiful.

As you may know, I have made a New Year's Resolution to not let rude people away with rudeness. So far, this has gone really well. Through pointing out other people's rudeness I have managed to get TWO free hash browns, ONE free bottle of Diet Coke and a lot of apologies. This is a New Year's Resolution that I would love you all to join in with and tell me how you get on. HOWEVER....the first rule of Polite Club is that you don't do a pathetic, out-of-date Fight Club joke. Second rule: Be safe. Don't point out to a large gang of knife wielding maniacs that they're not allowed to put their feet up on the seats of the bus. You might find your feet up your arse. With that in mind, last night was my first Polite Club disaster.

I knew it was going to happen sooner or later. A group of lads who looked a bit scary playing loud music on the train. It was loud music. It was terrible music (WHY DO THESE PEOPLE NEVER PLAY THE SMITHS?). But everyone in the carriage sat there quietly and tried to force the noise out of their heads while pretending all this wasn't happening. They were a horrible bunch of fucking cunts who knew exactly what they were doing. There were four of them, they were loud, they were aggressive to one another. Fuck knows what they would be like to a complete stranger if that's how they treat their actual friends. I looked at them and thought about it for ages. Would I get away with it if I asked them to switch their music off? Would the rest of the carriage defend me if they got aggressive? After looking around the carriage I decided "no". I had clocked Torquil Zest but he was reading a book. He was just like everyone else. He was pretending that none of this was happening. Balls. I had failed Polite Club (membership to date: 1). I put my iPod on and went on Twitter and tried to forget about it.

That's the thing about Torquil. He's not like everyone else. Firstly, he's utterly massive. Secondly, he'll give you a chance but if you don't take that chance then he will use the fact that he's utterly massive.

10 minutes into me hiding in my iPod, Torquil got up from his seat. He walked down towards the horrible, loud people. He looked so beautiful. His shoulders blocking out all light, his stride confident and deadly, if he had any hair it would have been romantically wind swept and handsome. Now here is confidence: He didn't ask them to turn their music down. Oh no. That's not Torquil's style. Instead he sat right down between them, BETWEEN THEM, asking them to give him a seat. After asking them all if they were OK he calmly turned to the one with the loud music and said "Give me that. I'll switch it off for you".

YES! YES, TORQUIL, YES. You magnificent God among men. He sat with them for maybe two minutes before asking the lads to keep the noise down and returning to his seat. The status of those lads changed beyond all recognition. They barely even spoke for the rest of the journey. Not that I would have heard a word because I was lost to Torquil Zest. I just replayed what happened over and over in my head, loving it each time, and Torquil, Oh Torquil, just got bigger, better and more beautiful each time I thought about it. I stopped myself from Tweeting about it all because it was too perfect. I wanted to keep Torquil to myself. He was my Torquil and I just wasn't ready to share yet. Plus, I wanted to be him. That's when the thoughts got dark.

Look how calm Torquil was. He didn't need to get too aggressive because he could pulverise everyone in the world. If that was me, there would be about 18 people left on the planet. I would love to be all big and muscley and tough because I would like to think I would use all that for good but I know I wouldn't. The least little cough in a cinema and I'd punch the popcorn down the cunt's throat. If someone whistled on the tube I would kick their copy of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo up their arse. If I clicked on Chortle and saw an unworthy game show host was playing the o2 Arena then HULK SMASH! It wasn't Torquil's size that I wanted, it was his calm reserve. His calm reserve that got things done. Like a 15 tonne Gandhi. Torquil could give us a Shangri-La but in my hands it would be Armageddon. Tonight thank God it's him instead of me.

I love you Torquil.

Thursday, 20 January 2011

Stop The Presses.

I prefer reading the Daily Mail to The Guardian. It's a much better newspaper. Oh, don't get me wrong, I prefer brushing my teeth with a broken bottle while The Script tell me about the new direction their next b-side is taking than reading the Daily Mail but I'd still read it before I read The fucking Guardian.

You just can't take the Daily Mail seriously. It's written by the insane for the insane. They don't actually mean what they write and what they write certainly never happened but the voices in their punchable heads convince them that the real tragedy of Jo Yeates' death is that she didn't go to a nicer pub before she died (but at least her choice of pizza proved that Jo had aspirations of "a lovely life"). What Liz Jones wrote was insane but you can't be too shocked or angry about it because it's the Daily Mail. And it's Liz Jones. She's a faker who writes "shocking" (ie Tedious) things, so that people give her attention, in a newspaper that thinks gays are Nazi's (check yesterday's Daily Mail) despite the Nazi's making quite a ding-dong over their opinion of homosexuals. They don't mean what they say, it's obvious, they just want us all looking in their direction. Well, that's the best case scenario. Thinking of them as twisted is actually giving them the benefit of the doubt otherwise they're just evil. I mean, the Daily Mail couldn't be evil, could it? But, somehow, we've been conned into thinking more of The Guardian. At least the Daily Mail makes us angry, The Guardian just wants to make us stupid.

The Guardian has a little bit of news in it, I'll give you that. But the rest of it? It's a fucking middle-class, twee, backward lifestyle magazine and nothing more. Would you read Hello! Magazine? No. Why the fuck would you read The Guardian then? It's stuffed with absolute inane bollocks. Gossip, shoes, terrible art, pictures of ill looking actresses on a red carpet and fucking pointless "beauty" sections fill the newspaper. The Guardian has a "Fashion and Beauty" section? What fucking left-wing newspaper has a "Fashion and Beauty" section? "Obama's popularity in the States is sliding. Perhaps a hat?" It's fucking pathetic. But at least the choice is there. You don't have to buy The Guardian. You can read it for free on the internet.


The online version of The Guardian is even worse. Not only does pay professional writers to be thick they openly let anyone write their madness for free. They call this Comment Is Free. I call it The End Of Days. I know I shouldn't let it get to me but it did. Jenna Woginrich is a horrible, wealthy liar who wants us to be just like her. You know. "If you're not happy with your food, do what I did. I opened a farm all by myself". OK, let's just assume, as Jenna has done, that we can all afford to buy a farm, what next? Well, Jenna is a lover of animals and has been a vegetarian for the bulk of her adult life but has given up vegetarianism because she realised that not eating meat is cruel to animals.

I know. It took me a while too. Jenna has got it into her easily distracted brain that vegetarianism isn't a money making ideal and therefore worthless. The only way to be ethical is to pretend that you like animals, farm them so they are happy right up until you murder them, don't inject them with steroids and then charge a fucking fortune by claiming that this is healthy. Jenna doesn't get human beings. If someone wants to eat meat then they will eat meat. Few people care where their meat comes from and poorer people can't afford to care where their meat comes from. There will be no massive increase in the sale of "ethical" meat ever because no one gives a shit. If you don't care about animals, you eat meat. If you do care about animals, you don't eat meat. It's very straightforward. The point of vegetarianism or veganism is that hurting, scaring or killing an animal is wrong and, considering the wide range of other food available, pointlessly cruel. If Jenna really wanted to be ethical, and is doing all this for the animal's benefit, as she claims then maybe reminding people what it is that they're actually eating is the best way forward? Certainly has to be better than befriending animals only to kill them for profit. Et Tu Brute.

Er...not that all animals are nasty Roman dictators. Hardly any of them are. You can read Jenna's article here. You might agree with her. You might not. :

I never read Jenna's other article she wrote for The Guardian because it was so painfully The Guardian and had the stupidest title I've ever read: "Jams Secret Ingredient: Effort".

No it isn't.

Saturday, 15 January 2011

Boom Boom.

Isn't the news depressing? Floods and murder and the beatification of a dead Pope who will become a Saint after he performed the miracle of hiding paedophiles and not going to jail. You're better off not knowing about the world. It's an awful place anyway. But once in a while a news story comes along and just makes your heart soar. It gives you hope. It makes you happy.

A fox shot a hunter. Is there ever going to be a more feel-good story than that? Well, there is because it wasn't just a fox that shot a hunter, it was a WOUNDED fox that shot a hunter. A terrified, wounded, bleeding, helpless, defenceless animal somehow turned the gun on his coward assassin and shot him. WHERE THE FUCK IS THE BEATIFICATION OF THIS FOX? THAT, BeneDICK, is a miracle. Saint Basil, patron Saint of getting rid of fuck-wits. I love that fox.

Read the beautiful story here:

Just got time for a tip: DO NOT SEE 127 HOURS. It's an absolutely brilliant film. Unbelievably tense, claustrophobic and horrible. The script is great, it's filmed beautifully and James Franco is, for once, amazing and likeable. BUT... The whole way through the film your head can't help shouting "YOU STUPID FUCKING PRICK" constantly. Who the fuck does these things? Who invented extreme sports? Why is smashing yourself to bits thought of as a rush? Isn't Batman on the Wii enough? 127 Hours is a true story about a man who likes going into the middle of the desert, WHERE NO ONE CAN FIND HIM, and climbing deep down into tiny crevaces hundreds of feet into the rock. WHAT A CUNT. I hate him. When he falls, traps his arm and spends six days going insane until he cuts his own arm off, it was all I could do to stop myself standing up and shouting "THERE YOU GO, YOUNG MAN. YOU DESERVED THAT. NOW THINK ON. dick". Just before he fell, TWO GIRLS asked him to go to a party with him. Did he go? NO. He said "Whooo!", high-fived them and tried to jump the Grand Canyon on a Space Hopper made of cement.

If you do any EXTREME snowboarding or EXTREME mountaineering or anything where you put yourself in danger with only a bit of rope and EXTREME Ribena to get you out of it then please stop doing that immediately or else I will dance all the way to your funeral and lay a big wreath that spells out "EXTREME PRICK". All I'm saying is, 127 Hours is exhausting and imagine how lovely a film it would have been if that dick just enjoyed dominoes or kitten kissing.

Oh, and wouldn't it be nice if just once, JUST ONCE, Danny Boyle did use his own terrible home-made compilation tape as a soundtrack?

Short blog but sweet blog.

Friday, 14 January 2011

Badger Gets BAFTA?

About a year ago I was begged to appear as the star of a 12 minute play and since then I have gone on to star in a musical and now a sit-com pilot. I think it's fair to say that I am one of the most successful and sought after actors in the country. I'm definitely one of the most successful actors that I know.

I know you're all very proud of me and can't quite believe it but, YES, I'm the star of a sit-com pilot. The sit-com is called Dave Shakespeare and I play the title role of Badger King, a role I was born/given to play.The world of acting is a tough one but I managed to bag the role through the proper professional procedure of waiting for everyone to say no to it and the director then desperately messaging me on Facebook. Obviously I had to poke him a few times, but the job was mine.

I haven't done much filming, except ads and even the last one of those I did I was drunk (That cost me about £12,000), so this was all very exciting to me. To be very honest, I think it may have come across as pretty obvious that I don't have much experience in TV acting. The fact that I CONSTANTLY started acting waaaaaaay before "Action" was called and that every single line I delivered was in a different accent was not me being eager or experimental. I just hadn't a fucking clue what I was doing. The amount of TV I have watched over the decades were I have sat there criticising actors is massive and, although I'm never ever going to stop doing that, I completely get that there's a lot more to it all than turning up and learning some of your lines. You really have no idea the amount of psychological preparation you have to go through to shoot a scene while dressed as a badger with 8 elderly people on top of you. But, thanks to yesterday's filming, I know exactly what that's like. Just in case you missed that let me make it clear: THERE WHERE 8 ELDERLY PEOPLE ON TOP OF ME WHO RAVAGED ME WHILE I WRITHED ON THE GROUND. It was basically a cross between Cocoon and The Accused.

The other thing that I learned yesterday was that extras really love to act. The extras I worked with were all really lovely and had a lot more experience at this sort of thing than I had but MY GOD did they LOVE acting. None of that sitting back and being subtle for them. They fucking went for it. They were DEFINITELY getting on screen and they WOULD BE SEEN! I liked them. You'd think that someone would make a sit-com about how funny extras can be. Another trick missed by telly.

It was a very good fun couple of days and I'm glad I did it. Not sure exactly what I contributed but it was fun. They say in this business that filming is boring. The work is great but the sitting around all day waiting is just tedious and exhausting. I beg to differ. My lack of experience meant that I couldn't enjoy the work fully (although NO ONE gets bored dressed as a badger with 8 elderly people on top of them) and the sitting around waiting was a laugh. What a lovely bunch of people. Plus I heard a great anecdote about what a complete cunt Ian McShane is. I FELT LIKE A REAL ACTOR!! I particularly liked hearing it being told and re-told several times as it spread through the cast and crew. Showbiz.

Plus I got fussed over by lots of women. This is my favourite thing, really. I was wearing a rubber badger mask and the costume lady and the make-up lady constantly asked about my welfare. Production assistants ran off to get me water and sympathy while fearing I would dehydrate. Natalie Casey fanned me while I was tied to a chair. It was great. Of course, the costume wasn't too hot and the mask was only a bit uncomfortable. It wasn't the heat that got to me, it was the creepy feeling that wearing a rubber mask was like having another persons skin wrapped around your face. A feeling that only adds to the experience of being ravaged by 8 elderly people.

It's the magic of television.

(By the way, on a side note but one very important to me. The director, Frank, is vegan therefore we had vegan food at the shoot. GOOD vegan food. I never expected that.)

Tuesday, 11 January 2011

Lose The Gut.

You really must be careful when you make a decision. You make decisions because things need improving but, if you're anything like me (and you are), your gut reaction takes over well before your brain see's the bigger picture. Your gut rarely improves anything. Our lives are full of these regrettable moments. It's the beginning of January so you think you need to better yourself by joining a gym and you feel happy for a minute and then you realise you've spent a fortune on something you hate and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror wearing shorts and you hate yourself and you hate your awful legs and you hate everyone in the gym because they know how every machine and free-weight works and you're baffled by the skipping rope. Or you feel you deserve better at work and you ask the boss for a raise and he agrees and promotes you and everyone is proud of you and you are happy for a billionth of a nano second because now that you're promoted you realise that you hate your job and your new desk and your new job title and all you've done is leapt another mile away from your dream of being a roadie for These Animal Men. Or you call someone a sell-out and feel smug for a half second after pressing SEND before you remember that you write for The Sun and sell crap Australian beer for a living. Don't listen to yourself ever. You're an idiot. We all are.

I know I am. My New Year's Resolution of not letting anyone away with being rude has finally hit me. It's a really bad idea. I'm going to get killed to death.

Of course, it all has to do with a train. Trains are my nemesis. If something bad is going to happen, a train will be involved. Did you know that the "grassy knoll" leads to a train line? It really does. Trains are bastards. There I was at Paddington station shuffling my way off the train and down the platform when a man rushed towards me, whacked into me at full force and ran off. Because I made this decision to not let rude people off, I listened to my gut and did what any clear-headed, rational person would have done. I tutted a bit and just forgot about it.

Oh. Hang on. No. I didn't do that.

I ran after him.

It wasn't a big run, don't worry. If it was he would have got away and I would have died of stitch. He didn't get far and I caught him. I literally caught him. By his arm. And this is where it got uncomfortable.

He looked all shocked. My gut loved this. My gut was having a great time. Running after this man and grabbing him by the arm was definitely the right thing to do. The scared man asked what was wrong. "You just whacked right into me", I said, still holding his arm. "I'm really sorry", he said. "I'm going to miss my train".

"I know you are", I replied while grabbing his arm now with both of my hands."Because I'm not letting you go".

And that's when my gut stopped laughing and my head woke up. "What are you doing, Michael? A man has bumped into you, so now you've kidnapped him?" My head was very disappointed in me.

The man looked really scared. That made me really scared. Two scared men together on a train platform not knowing what to do. I let him go and he ran.

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! What the hell is wrong with me? It's not like he purposely shoved me. Yes, it would have been nice if he had apologised and maybe he'll think twice about that in the future but is that really the point? Is HE the one that needs to think about things in the future? I GRABBED A MAN! I don't grab men. Men push me and I accept it. I DON'T GRAB MEN!

And has this made me change my mind about my New Year's Resolution? Sigh.... No. Of course not. Me and my stupid gut.

That whole thing lasted about 10 seconds but has taken me 4 days to come to terms with. By the way, if you want to join me in my NY Resolution, then please do and let me know how you've stood up against rudeness. First rule: DO NOT PUT YOURSELF IN DANGER. Remember, I'm an idiot. Thank you.

Tuesday, 4 January 2011

Answer Me This.

There are two things I really like and they are looking at birds and doing pub quizzes. Even Doctor Who doesn't give me the giggly erection that birdies and booze questions do. I'm in my element. Lovely animals and being in a pub shouting out film facts. It's better than secks. Whatever that is.

But I am in Northern Ireland. That's right, the other place that likes to say NO. I went to two bird sanctuaries over the last two days. One was shut, obviously, and one turned out to be a private sanctuary. Where the birds are bred for hunting. Jesus fucking Christ. Then there was the pub quiz. I've been to lots of pub quizzes and I like them for the very good reasons that they're in pubs, I can have booze, no music will be playing and everyone is pretty much as old as me. Young people hate pub quizzes and therefore they cannot come in and taunt me with their youth and lovely hair and immortality. If young people so much as hear a question, to them, it's like still being at home with their stupid old parents. "I don't have to answer this", they shout over the top of their embarrassing ringtone. "You don't understand me or my music". Then they storm out of the pub, slam the door and play Vampire Weekend at full volume from their phone at the bus stop while fucking energetically and constantly. The stupid arseholes. They'll catch their death out there while we, the aged, are safe in a cosy pub quiz eagerly writing down topical answers, music trivia and arguing over the photo round. Young people are so stupid they can't see how brilliant it is to just stop fucking for a couple of hours and just get quizzical. LOL!

Except the youth of Northern Ireland.

We went to Roma's which is the good bar in my hometown. There are lots of bars in my hometown but most have retained that old charm of YOU WILL GET YOUR HEAD KICKED IN so Roma's is the best choice. It's in the centre of town but with an old countryside feel to the interior. Perfect for a quiz night. The only thing that ruined it was ABSOLUTELY FUCKING EVERYTHING.

The music was deafening and youthful and dreadful. It was quite loud before the quiz started but for some unfathomable reason they turned it way up as the questions began. The pub quiz had a pumping techno soundtrack. It's a fucking PUB QUIZ! Not Tron. It was so difficult to hear what the bored, 12 year old quiz master was saying. The awful music was bad enough but the fact that the quiz master got his microphone skills from Norman Collier really didn't help.

That's right. I referenced Norman Collier. I did that because I'm a handsome and distinguished old man and not a fucking child like everyone else in the bastard room. EVERY. SINGLE. ONEOFTHEM. It was me and my family (the youngest being 29) versus nine other teams of teams... CRÈCHES of fresh faced, energetic, good looking, happy WANKERS. What the fuck are they doing at MY pub quiz and what the hell have they done to it? Why aren't they outside throwing bricks at libraries and quoting Misfits and drinking and aborting? Why can't they all just fucking act their age? GET OUT OF MY PUB QUIIIIIIIIIZZZZZ!!!

Of course, I was delighted that someone actually asked the quiz master to turn the sound down but imagine my disappointment when I found out that the person was me and I was told NO. Well, they said yes but they didn't do it so that's a NO in my book. My first complaint failure of the year. I was depressed. The quiz was loud, had a sports round and was infested with youth. And the worst part? They were all really nice.

Fucking bastarding young people. They were ruining my quiz and now, thanks to being friendly and fun, were ruining my chance to relax back and hate them. The table next to ours helped with a sports question. The table across invited us to a sing song. They were young and having fun. Humbug.

It's hard to come to terms with the fact that I might be too old for pub quizzes and has certainly made me reflect on my future. How will I feel when I find out that dominoes is a young man's game? That Last Of The Summer Wine has got too complicated and relies too much on special effects? That Werther's Originals are what da yoof drop?

I have to just admit defeat, I suppose. Everyone loved the pub quiz except us and even then we enjoyed ourselves because everyone else was enjoying themselves. Like when someone else's great-grandchildren come to visit at the nursing home. They're nothing to do with you but it's nice just to see them play.

Anyway, where was I? This Horlicks is nice.

Saturday, 1 January 2011

The Best.

But let’s start 2011 with a positive. Let’s not just assume that everyone’s going to be rude and/or take the piss constantly. It’s a new year, a fresh start, a clean slate. Let’s look upon it positively.

Before 8.30 this morning I had told a cab driver off for ripping me off (he got embarrassed and admitted it) and asked a guy that worked at the airport café how he justified charging £1.18 for one single fucking hash brown (he later brought two more hash browns over to my table. TWO FREE HASH BROWNS!). Complaining has come so naturally to me already this year. I’m finally good at something and it’s paying off (TWO FREE HASH BROWNS!!).

But, of course, that’s not what anyone wants to read in the first blog of the year. No. You want to know what all my bestest’s of 2010 are and my ego is eager to tell you. Even apart from performing and “writing” Pointless Anger Righteous Ire, playing the title role of Vicar in Gutted: A Revenger’s Musical, having a big foot and touching Jim Bob, I have had a brilliant year full of bestest’s. And here they are:

Sugar Baby Spangle Puke by The Tender Genocide.

Fuck Off, Mum by Pixie Goulding.

The Man Who Knew 2 Unlimited.

How I Escaped My Certain Fate by Jim Davidson.

Big House Full of Cunts.

Frankie Boyle’s Tramadol Lunch.

“That doesn’t taste like Twix, Nana”.

Oh, yours. It’s hilarious.

It’s been a wonderful year, hasn’t it? And here’s to a bright, beautiful 2011. It’s going to be great. What? The Morgana Show has been recommissioned? Sigh...